The Greek Millionaire's Mistress. Catherine Spencer
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can we just sit and get to know one another better? You said earlier that you wouldn’t be where you are today if it weren’t for Angelo Tyros, and I’ve been wondering what you meant by that.”
He shrugged his impeccably tailored shoulders regretfully. “Much though I’d prefer to watch the sun come up with you at my side, I’m afraid I must deny myself the pleasure. I’m officially working and shouldn’t be gone from the party too long.”
Well, so much for finding her irresistible! As long as she was willing to let him seduce her, he had all the time in the world to spare, but the minute she called a halt to the physical side of things, duty called him elsewhere—probably to one of those women she’d earlier noticed salivating over him as if he were a particularly mouthwatering slice of baklava!
“Thanks for reminding me that I’m slacking off, too,” she said, not quite able to keep the sting out of her voice. “I’m being paid to produce an article about the rich and famous, and could be missing all kinds of delicious goings-on downstairs.”
He started to speak, but she was in no mood to listen because her little bubble of happiness had burst and left her flat with disillusionment. She’d been out of circulation too long, that was the trouble. Adopting the role of parent to her poor, lost mother had blunted her social skills, and left her so hungry for a touch of glamour, a soupçon of romance, that she’d lost all perspective the very second Mikos had spared her a second glance.
How could she have been so naive? Sophisticated men like him weren’t interested in cosy chats by moonlight. She ought to be grateful he hadn’t laughed in her face at the mere idea!
Swallowing the absurd lump in her throat, she swept to the elevator and pressed the call button. Mercifully the doors slid open promptly, offering a fast escape. But not quite fast enough. Mikos was right on her heels, ushering her into the car with such charming continental gallantry that it took every iota of willpower for her to maintain a stony-faced mask of indifference.
“I have offended you,” he observed ruefully, as the doors ghosted shut.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted, and wished he’d stop staring at her. Didn’t he know that people in elevators were supposed to look at the illuminated numbers on the directory panel, and never at other passengers?
“If that is true,” he replied, after a lengthy pause, “then once things start to quieten down a little, perhaps you’ll join me for a late snack?”
She covered her mouth with her hand and faked a long yawn. “Oh, I doubt that. I’m pretty tired already, and won’t be hanging around once I’ve collected enough material to complete my article.”
“I see.” Another silence followed, this one more protracted, then, “You have a room here, at the Grande Bretagne, do you, Gina?”
She thought of the Grande Bretagne, newly restored to its nineteenth century grandeur, and laughed, a brittle humorless sound that echoed harshly in that confined space. “Hardly! I’m a working woman, remember?”
“But you have adequate accommodation in a decent neighborhood?”
“I’m at the Topikos, just a couple of blocks from the Hilton.” It was nothing splashy, and certainly didn’t compare to the Grande Bretagne, but her room was clean and comfortable, came with its own bathroom and was affordable.
“Then I’ll arrange for a car to take you home when you’re ready to leave.”
“No need,” she said. “It’s not far. I can walk, or take a taxi.”
“I will not allow any such thing. Please let me know when you’ve had enough of the party.”
Fat chance! she almost told him. Fortunately the elevator sighed to a stop and the second the doors slid open, the din from the party swam through, drowning out any possibility of further conversation.
Once inside the ballroom, she waggled her fingers in farewell. “See you later,” she mouthed, and promptly put as much distance between him and her as possible.
Sadly he made no attempt to stop her. Instead, with the careless elegance only the very rich and self-assured dared assume, he sauntered across the imposing lobby and struck up a conversation with a man seated in an alcove.
Well, if Mikolas Christopoulos wasn’t going to give her access to Angelo Tyros, she’d have to do it on her own. Refusing to admit the bitter taste in her mouth sprang from a disappointment that had to do with more than thwarted ambition, she made her way unimpeded to the head table, only to suffer another setback. There was no sign of the Greek billionaire.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?” she asked a woman still seated there.
“A little, yes.”
“Then can you tell me where I might find Mr. Tyros? I was hoping he’d grant me an interview.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose in amusement. “You’re too late, Kyria! Even if he’d have agreed to speak to you, which is doubtful, Angelo left some time ago. He is eighty, after all!”
Oh, great! Just wonderful!
No denying her letdown this time. It burned her throat raw.
She’d started out on such a high note. Been greeted on her arrival at the Grande Bretagne by a cloaked doorman who’d ushered her into the lobby as if she were royalty. Somehow caught the eye of the most attractive man in the room, who’d singled her out for his undivided attention, only to dump her as soon as he realized she wasn’t up for a quick grope between the potted palms. And matters had gone steadily downhill ever since. All in all, the evening had been a complete bust.
Discouraged and exhausted suddenly, she circled back to the ballroom’s exit, grateful to see that although the faithful four continued to stand guard against gatecrashers, Mikos was nowhere in sight.
At least, that was her assumption until, when she was halfway across the Persian carpet adorning the lobby, a hand closed over her shoulder and that dark, rich voice that had so nearly seduced her on the roof, murmured in her ear, “And just where do you think you’re going, Ms. Hudson?”
CHAPTER TWO
SHE’D thought she was tired, that falling into bed and sleeping without fear of what she might wake up to was exactly what she both needed and wanted. But the sun was well-risen and already flushing the tall buildings of downtown Athens with color when she finally arrived back at her hotel room, just after eight o-clock the next morning.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she’d told Mikos, pushing aside yet another pesky photographer and making her determined way through the rotating doors of the Grande Bretagne to the street outside, “but I’m heading back to my hotel.”
Undeterred, he’d followed her. “We decided you’d let me know when you were ready to do that.”
“No,” she corrected him stonily. “You decided, not I.”
He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers imperiously. That, it seemed, was all it took for a small black Mercedes limousine to materialize from the shadows and cruise to a stop at the curb. “Just as well one of us has some sense then, isn’t it?” he said, and held open the rear door in refuse-me-at-your-peril invitation.
Although she’d have loved to defy him and stalk haughtily off into the night under her own steam, in truth she was glad of the excuse to be off her feet. Strappy rhinestone sandals might exemplify the ultimate in elegant evening accessories, but they didn’t lend themselves to hiking. Not only that, she hadn’t worn three inch heels in years, and her feet were aching unmercifully. So she swallowed her pride and slithered into the back seat in a flurry of violet silk chiffon. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I appreciate your consideration.”
“Parakalo! Don’t mention it,” he returned.
Assuming she’d seen the last of him, she leaned forward to give